The Headsman of Valmora
by Salderon
Summary: Following the events aboard the BSL station, Samus Aran has departed Federation space for Valmora. A resource-rich world within the lawless Border Clusters. On this world, caught in a constant flux between order and anarchy, a legend is on the rise. Soldier, warrior, bounty killer; feared above any warlord or crime boss, human or alien. His name is Clayton Sloan.
1. Prologue

_A/N: It's shorter than I'd like, but I figure it makes for a good prologue Thanks for reading, and please review!_

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 _"You want just one criminal in a crowded room killed, send an assassin. You want to kill a few, send a bounty hunter. You want to kill them_ all _, you send The Headsman._ "  
 **\- Popular Marshals' adage in the Border Clusters**

 **=][=**

It had been a while since Samus had seen her own blood.

It looked...weird. It was a lot brighter than she remembered; more viscous. It oozed along the fractured plates of her armor and down her arm. Dripping off the end of her finger. Pooling onto the sand swept rock. Staining the tips of her honey blonde hair.

This was not good.

Samus didn't know when her helmet had come off. She remembered taking the hit, remembered the grenade and the explosion. She remembered the painful tumble into the small box canyon she lay in, but for the life of her she couldn't recall when her God damn helmet had popped off. It lay on its side some ways from where Samus had landed. The visor cracked and dented at odd angles, deep rents along the dome from heavy claws, plasma burns blackening the vibrant red paint scheme. To her right lay her trusty Arm Cannon, equally as dented and tarnished as her helmet. Mottled by scratches, ozone drifted up from its ion-burnt muzzle with an audible hiss.

Samus blinked and reached out to her weapon tentatively. A sensation like pins and needless raced up her arm and focused at the tips of her fingers as she grabbed hold of the tubular weapon and pulled it to her. Carefully Samus pushed herself into a sitting position, immediately pain spiked up from under her right armpit. The tell-tale sound of blood belching up from between the plates of her Suit let Samus identify the source of her agony, a section of her armor had been blown completely open and an ugly feeling gouge had been punched into her ribcage. It hurt like a bastard and it was bleeding bad. With pained effort Samus managed to reach her left hand around and over the gaping wound in hopes to apply some kind of pressure on it to step the flow of carmine fluids down her Power Suit.

The rumble of boots against loose rock and dirt caught her attention. "Hey, Boss! She's down here!"

Samus leveled her Cannon at the bandit's fuzzy shape and fired a succession of power beams. The ruinous bolts of energy struck the bandit in his neck, jaw, and face, rendering those parts of his anatomy into a charred crater.

"Shit, Huey!" Another bandit screamed. Samus snapped onto him and fired another volley but missed as he ducked behind a turn in the passage. "The crazy bitch is still alive!"

Too late Samus saw the lance of energy lashing out with a crash and burst into a flash along her collar. The blast knocked the wind clean out of her and sent her against a slab of sandstone. Her vision blurred up and her head throbbed even further.

"Don't know when to quit, do you?" A voice hissed as gravelly footsteps approached. Through the bright spots in her eyes Samus saw the vague shapes of her quarry saunter towards her. Gordan Thaleed. Escaped convict, petty criminal, and serial bank robber. Most recently Gordan's biggest accomplishment was the armed robbery of a caravan in a city to the south-east, the number of security personnel and local law-enforcement officers Gordan and his team managed to gun down before fleeing the scene had served to graduate him to the pool of most wanted men by the Interstellar Law Marshals. But it was a long list.

Like an expert rogue in a den of cutthroats, Gordon was flanked on one side by two of his cronies. Samus didn't recall their names, the gang had swelled their numbers so much in the past month it was hard to keep up, but both were outfitted in modest tactical gear and toting slug-throwers they had bought using the payment from their heist.

"Think you could just come back to Valmora and everything would be the same? Still the sparkling jewel of the Border Clusters just like the good ol'days," Gordan sneered, spitting a load of phlegm. "Well, part of that might be true. But you forgot _everything_ she taught you. You shoulda been in that ship of yours, rained this whole pissbox crevass with enough plasma to scorch it to glass and come after our remains. Like the Guild taught'cha. But you didn't. Instead, you came at us from up front. Tits out an guns blazin'. We led you on a merry little chase, didn't we? And when your wits slipped up you got lured into a bottleneck and gunned down like a bitch. Walked right into an ambush by a bunch of third-rate crooks. How the mighty have fallen, grown fat on the Federation's dime and lost what Valmora had made you into."

Gordan came to a stop beside Samus' helmet and she glowered up into his pale gray eyes wishing she could actually glare daggers. "The Champion of the Chozo. Maiden of New Malinois. Mightiest bounty hunter in the Federation, Samus Aran."

Gordon reared his foot back and struck Samus in her abdomen before she could react. The bandit lord grinned gleefully at the pained croon Samus gave a she clutched her midsection. A second kick connected to her shoulder and knocked Samus over again. In some loathsome part of her being, Samus knew Gordon was right, and her current state was deserved. What the _hell_ did she think she was _doing_ , coming back to the Border Clusters and snatching up the first job that caught her eye? What did she expect? She honestly didn't know, but it never crossed her mind that she would be outdone by a stick-up man high on the stink of his own shit, and the smug goons on hi payroll.

"To be honest, I'm a little disappointed," Gordan sighed. "How many people did me and my guys kill in Vitya, two or three dozen? And the best the Marshals can do is sic a has-been Fed lackey. Are the Marshals so starved for help that-"

There was suddenly an explosive report that rang out from somewhere above the bandits, and an instant later the side of the one of the thug's head blew apart like a melon, spattering bits of bone and brain and blood across Gordan and the other bandit as they flinched away, a flurry of oaths spewing from their mouths.

"Sniper!" Gordan only just managed to shout as a second shot rang out and his chest erupted in a spray of bloody pulp and he tumbled back to the sandy ground with a wail of agony and a fit of curses. The last of his cronies made to flee back down the passage he had come but was gunned down with a shot to his neck before he made it ten feet. His body smacked against the canyon wall before collapsed into a heap with a wake of blood marking his passage.

Sura lay in the death strewn crevice and stared at Gordon as he struggled to his feet, one hand clutched the hole in his sternum while the other supported his weight. The sound of metal grinding against rough stone and plate clanking against plate filled the small enclosure as something large and heavy landed in the dirt. Gordon gave a furious roar and charged out of sight. His defiance was short, and rapid thuds - the telltale sound of a fistfight - preceded a sharp crack of breaking bones. Gordon's voice sounded with a shriek that was cut short by a whipping sound. Gordon's body collapsed onto the ground across from her, twitching violently. Blood sputtering from the stump atop his neck where his head should have been.

Plated black boots sauntered across the disturbed sands in front of her eyes, a glowing red muzzle brake casually swinging besides them at the end of a barrel still wafting gunsmoke. Samus glanced her eyes up at her inadvertent rescuer. A black colossus defiant of the vibrant blue sky loomed above her. The rifle hung on a sling around his shoulders; one hand clutched the handle of a white bladed knife that gleamed with a patient and sinister cunning and the other held the severed head of Gordon Thaleed by a fistful of hair. A mask of black death that gleamed under the glare of the morning sun and two red slits of light haunted the darkness that consumed her when she passed out.


	2. Dot

_A/N: OC fluff dump in this one. That's about it. Next chapter should be done within the next couple weeks. Since I've naught to announce otherwise, I despise Other M with a passion, and I don't care what anyone says the only game I consider non-cannon is that pathetic wad of mediocrity. Consider this story AU from this point forward._

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 _"You can run on for a long time_  
 _Run on for a long time_  
 _Run on for a long time_  
 _Sooner or later God'll cut you down_  
 _Sooner or later God'll cut you down_  
 _Go tell that long tongue liar_  
 _Go and tell that midnight rider_  
 _Tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter_  
 _Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down_  
 _Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down"_  
 **— "God's Gonna Cut You Down", as made famous by Johnny Cash**

" _Coming from nearly every block of life, the bounty hunter makes a living pursuing and apprehending criminals, dead or alive, for monetary gain. Their line of work often makes them gruff and cynical, if they possess the luck to live long enough, and in the eyes of some citizens he or she may be only slightly better – or even worse than – the criminals they hunt._ _"  
_ **—** ** ** **Encyclopedia Galaxias, "** _ **Professions, Careers, and Services of the Border Clusters"**_ **.******

 **=]*[=**

The hum and glow of fluorescent light roused Samus back into the waking world. The soft chimes of an electrocardiograph ringing in her ears and the sensation of her breath on her cheeks brought her to full awareness. Samus started at the halo of soft lighting some feet overhead for a long moment as she pondered the possible places she had wound herself up in. It hadn't been the first instance in her life – or even the past few months – that she had awoken in a strange place with a gap in her short term memory on par with the throbbing in her head. She worked through the usual processes until she ran into the uncomfortable experiences of the past few weeks: Her return to the unincorporated mining world of Valmora in the lawless and disjointed Border Clusters, a happy reunion with the mentor that had trained her in the art of bounty hunting and a friendly encounter with the Marshal that had sworn her back into duty, of her pursuit of Gordon Thaleed, the most wanted bandit in the Four Deserts, and his stick-up crew. Everything came back to Samus then; the gunfight in Gordon's hideout and the chase through the neighboring canyon. The ambush that she literally walked into. The blast of the grenade that sent her tumbling to ruin, and her glimpse of Death cutting down all that fell in the wake of his fierce red gaze before she blacked out.

Once Samus clicked it together that she was in fact alive, she took in a deep breath and released it in a heavy and weary sigh while she set herself to blinking away the fuzziness at the corners of her vision. Whoever it was that had spotted Gordon and his goons must have brought her to a hospital, before taking off with the bounty. Samus puffed air through her nose and took in her surroundings.

Samus had been to more hospitals than she could hope to remember in the course of her career. It was almost nostalgic, the scent of antiseptic, the hum of the lights, and the taste of the unsettling and unnaturally clean air. Faintly her vision came into focus and Samus took in her immediate surroundings. Above her she counted the large tiles and the fine seams of that marked their separation and the inlaid lighting that illuminated the room. Slightly turning her head and swiveling her eyes around Samus discovered she was in a small medbay, laid out on an operating bed and wrapped in a comforter. Her limbs felt languid and heavy, requiring Samus to concentrate a little to get her toes to wiggle and her fingers to move, but she didn't get the pins and needles sensation from them falling asleep or going numb. It was annoying but it at least it wasn't painful.

 _At least I'm alive._ She thought, a grim half smile tugging at the corners of her lips when she caught a woman's voice from her right.

"Vitals are strong, from the looks of the CT she's coming out of sedation," the woman said. Cheerful and optimistic but still professional. "Yes. Yes, but her metabolism nullified everything else in our stock. So I didn't have much of a choice and she needed — and I do mean _needed_ — to be anesthetized for the operation. She'll be _fine_ , Marshal. The meds will keep her floaty for a while but if my projections indicate she'll be out of it and back on her feet well before Clay gets back."

"She's coming to, I gotta let you go. I'll send you the report as soon as I can." A freckled girl maybe a little older than twenty grinned happily as she appeared over Samus. Her look was very business casual, strands of her rich dark hair tied back behind her head, the collar of a lab coat and scrubs present under a dark red ascot tied around her slender neck. "Hey, you're awake!"

Samus made to respond but a wet gurgle was the only thing to escape her throat. Samus furrowed her brow with a confused frown and the girl winced, an embarrassed smile coming to her face.

"Oh, right, try to…not talk for the next few minutes, okay?" The woman moved around to Samus's left and observed the monitor above her head. "The anesthetic is still working its way through your system. Powerful stuff, this batch, but your system just chewed through anything else I tried. It's the first time I've operated on a celebrity."

Samus blinked and wriggled her arms to sit herself up with little success. The woman turned around and smirked. "Here, doll, lemme help with that."

The bed began to buzz and Samus began a swift but comfortable rise to a sitting position. She could see that the medbay was made up of two more beds and an operating table in its own room separated by a transparent door opposite her side of the room. Several cabinets and machines were aligned on a wall next to a counter a few feet from a door Samus supposed led out of the room. She of course hadn't a clue where. The room was nothing like anywhere she had ever seen, sleek but at the same time industrial, colored in muted grays that radiated recessed lighting that mimicked sunlight. Nothing like the sanitized white tiles and vibrant glare of high-energy plasma torches typical in Federation medical facilities. This place felt more like a home than a hospital. A private doctor, perhaps?

"Since you're awake _well_ ahead of schedule, would you at all mind if I administer an agent that'll help your system flush the meds out a little faster? You'll be able to stretch yourself out and get your bearings. Or whatever."

The bounty hunter pursed her lips as she thought for a moment before she gave an affirming nod. A cool sensation suddenly flooded Samus' consciousness and she shook her head; squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Her limbs began to tingle but were much more responsive. Samus brought a hand up and cleared the film from her eyelids away in a sweep of her fingers and thumb until they met at the bridge of her nose. She brought her hand away and blinked several times, staring at her pale, slender fingers that trembled slightly. A cold realization seized her and she looked down the table at the surgical blouse that clothed her. She was out of her suit. Samus jerked her head to the other woman with wide and alarmed eyes.

"Hey, hey! Relax, it's okay," she said, her hands up and pushing at the space between them to urge the distressed bounty hunter to calm down. "I had to remove your suit to treat you completely," she explained. "I have it waiting for you in the armory. Our fabricators are just about finished repairing it for you."

Resting her head back against the bed, Samus nodded and released a relieved sigh. She stared at her hand for a long moment with a smirk on her face, turning it over and watching as the warm light glowed through it, absently wondering when she had become so pale. "Fascinating bit of tech. Chozo design philosophy is exceptional, even when paired with human physiology."

The bounty hunter chortled at the woman's wonder. It was easy for someone to gawk at the quasi-mystical elements of her Power Suit when they weren't the ones who had to clean it and keep it in operational order. Which was _far_ from easy, considering the design was basically a current reworking of a thousands of years old combat suit. Samus had lost count of all the times she had to refit and recalibrate the operating system to be in a language she had some understanding of, or when she had to more or less rip all of the circuitry out to make sure the processors were synchronized with the acquired abilities she picked up in the occasional ruin of the High Races so she wouldn't suddenly expose herself during a literal fight for her life against a gargantuan space-born abomination out of H. P. Lovecraft's fevered imagination that spewed dark matter out of an ungodly number of orifices.

But the suit had been built for her, and, Samus would admit, the Chozo built to last.

"If you could just set your feet onto the floor here?" Prompted by the woman Samus swung her legs of the bed and gingerly settled her feet onto the floor where a small yellow square appeared.

The woman continued talking. "There we go, just sit like that for a sec. Alright your stats are looking about normal. You should be mobile in the next five-ten minutes, tops," the woman said coming fully in front of Samus. She was a head shorter than Samus was and in her early twenties, best the bounty huntress could guess, dressed down into an unremarkable doctor's scrubs pulling off the starch white lab coat from her shoulders.

"So," she drew out, "since I'm _technically_ the only authority present at the moment, welcome aboard the IVC-S _Cobalt_." The woman said, turning around, her attire changing to a bluish-gray jacket and skirt that reminder Samus of a flight attendant in a flash of fine white light and Samus briefly caught a glimpse of an armature doll's frame as the girl turned around. She made a slight curtsy and offered a cheery smile. "I am Dot, MMRI-3903. It's a pleasure to meet you, Samus Aran."

 _Ah._ Samus thought, her expression matching her realization. _An AI, makes sense._

"Now," Dot clapped her hands together, an eager grin on her face. "Let's go over you're procedures, okay?"

Samus blinked but nodded. Monitors snapped up across from from her, each one detailed her most recent series of injuries. From the images the hit from the grenade and the subsequent fall into the box canyon had fucked her up the most; highlights included a fractured clavicle and five broken ribs, a collapsed lung, strain damage to muscles and ligaments in her neck, her left shoulder had been dislocated and broken in two places, and she had three plates and nine screws holding her jaw together. She had sustained moderate hydrostatic damage along her torso and abdomen from being shot eight times, no organ damage however, Samus thanked her armor for that. The rest of the injuries were minimal but bared mentioning, general dermal tissue and blood vessel laceration from shrapnel that required a whopping thirty-two stitches and staples to correct.

"I know you're gonna call me crazy," Dot chimed with something pushing between admiration and amusement, "but this isn't the worst I've seen. And you were in a lot worse shape when my man pulled you out of that canyon. You'd mostly healed up be the time you made it to my table. Perks of being a human-Chozo-Metroid hybrid."

Dot laughed when Samus slid her eyes to the apparition of the young woman with a pointed brow. "Easy with the evil eye, sister. I'm on your side, believe it or not. Strictly girl to girl from here on in. There's all kinds of things on the report I don't need to mention if you don't want me to. Just say the word, 'kay?"

Samus stared at her for a long moment. Dot blinked and exclaimed, clapping her hand to her face. "Right, the can't talk thing. Forgot. Sorry, I'm used to working with someone who rebounds a _lot_ faster than most people." Dot's followup smile was the codifier of sheepish. "Just...grunt or something, I guess."

The bounty hunter rolled her eyes up and shook her head, more amused than she thought she could muster.

"Right!" Dot clapped her hands together excitedly. "The _good_ news is that the neuromuscular blockers are all rinsed out of your system, so while we're waiting on my better half to get here, let's get you back on your feet and acclimated. Okay?"

Tentatively the bounty hunter came to her feet. Her knees wobbled and buckled and Samus gripped onto the guardrail of the operating bed as a precaution. Dot walked over and looped her arm under Samus'. "I gotcha, hon," she assured. "Just take your time. Don't worry."

With a nod, Samus let her hand off the guard, gripping Dot's shoulder tightly until she found her balance and let her foot off the ground to step forward, settling onto the oddly warm floor, heel first and closely followed by her toes. The follow up step was bigger than the first, but not by very much, and her leg shifted awkwardly under her but Dot was there to supported her weight along the doll's frame.

"Well that's two, only three-thousand, nine-hundred-twenty-four to go and you've seen the whole ship," Dot chimed, trying to lift her spirits. Samus retorted with a hoarse guffaw and sent her elbow into where the doll's ribs would be.

 **...**

Meridian in the late afternoon was nearly as empty as the pale desert that lay beyond its limits. Most of the stalls and kiosks of Market Village had closed for the day and the schools had let out for the weekend, the younger children long since shuttled home while their older counterparts went to dwell in their favored haunts. Meridian's active light-rail station was likewise dormant. The rail's schedule had finished some hours ago, the only occupants of the station at present were custodial staff making the place at least partially presentable for the following day and the men and women that maintained the array of communication antennae attached to the the station's roof and kept Meridian linked to the other settlements of Valmora and the rest of the isolated star system beyond the planet. Meridian's namesake port never failed its throb of activity as cargo ships and passenger flights arrived and departed in impossibly smooth patterns, devised by super intelligent air-control operators and a continuous stream of real-time information as pinpoint accurate as a warp drive. Main Street was wide and clear for the squat shipping vehicles, quickly delivering orders of merchandise and supplies from northern Wade City to the plethora of stores found in the slowly developing city. Either by port-owned trucks and cargo tugs or hired out privateer drivers and pilots selected by the respective store owners, as well as the hired guns needed to keep them safe. After a thorough inspection of any and all goods by the Port Authority.

The lax of activity made the muddied, soft-top two-door Bushwhacker growling across the dirt-swept pavement along Three Points easy to spot by the diligent eyes of Meridian's police force. Whether they patrolled the sidewalks and alleys, or observed the quiet city from the rooftops of buildings at the ends of high-caliber rifles. A modestly armored Class 2 light duty off-road four-wheel drive utility vehicle, Bushwhackers had been the flagship and hand-built ground vehicles of the Mercenaries Guild at the height of their "golden age" some years ago. When the Guild collapsed, the vast stock of the sturdy yet agile SUVs were brought into the possession of the Interstellar Law Enforcement Marshals, but a glance into their vehicle registry would reveal at least two Bushwhackers under private ownership of one former Arcturan pit-fighter that the Meridian police forces—both public and private—were _very_ familiar with.

The Bushwhacker dropped a great deal of speed and shrieked across the broken asphalt of a neglected side street before fishtailing to a stop in the courtyard of a prefab tenements building. The engine throbbed and rumbled a moment before going quiet as its lone occupant and driver stepped out.

Clayton Sloan tipped his head back as he studied the prefab apartment complex his target frequented. It was an ugly building, a gaudy array of once vibrant, now sun bleached colors stacked atop each other as new floors were added over Meridian's impressive lifetime. The block soared nine stories into the satin blue sky alongside a vertical mall split between three towers of differing height, and an office high-rise inhabited by several independent businesses between or alongside the branches of the mega corporations that originally prospected the hostile and resource abundant planet. Sloan had been pointed into the direction of the hideous eyesore of Three Points Apartments, aptly named in honor of Meridian's Three Points, the intersection of the financial, commercial, and residential districts of the quickly growing city. Where Sloan stood, technically he was in three different parts of Meridian at once. Sloan grunted dismissively and turned on his heel, venturing to the storage crates that took the place of the Bushwacker's rear seating, punched in the correct sequence on the keypad of one of the crates and retrieved two items from it, and he returned to the building.

The jet of the plasma cutter came to life with a soft crack and the brilliant purple wand of flame hissed fiercely. Spitting electrical noises jumped from its end as it was set against the alloy plate wall of the crudely built but sturdy building, sending sparks along Sloan's armored hands as he carved a hole about the size of the tip of a dime into the thick metal into a cone nearly as narrow as the secluded shadow swept alley between the surrounding buildings. A thin beam of light shot out from the newly crafted cavity in the metal wall cast from the raucous of the room behind it.

Sloan snaked a fiber optic cable fitted with a borescope at its end into the hole and into the gambling den on the opposite side. The camera's feed showed a single large room, sparsely decorated and modestly populated by an array of unscrupulous characters, human and alien alike. A craps table dominated the center of the room, flanked on one side by a roulette table, both competing against three blackjack counters, two five-card and Hold'em poker tables, and a row of noisy slot machines on the far wall. The fighting pit just below the borescope drew the largest crowd out of any of the attractions, with dozens of screaming patrons cheering on two reptilian canines quarreled with a slightly larger squid-like creature with a large beak filled with long glistening teeth in the chalk lined pit. The cries of pain drowned out by the attendees' cheering on the spectacle. Gambling, dog fighting included, was far from illegal on Valmora. In fact, such clubs were commonplace on Valmora. When the megacorps landed to plunder her resources, none of the project leads cared what their mouth-breathing underlings did when they were off the clock. As long as quotas were kept and the bottom line was healthy, no one batted an eye. The custom only flourished when the megacorps abandoned Valmora when maintaining any resemblance of stability on the feral death world cost more money than it was worth.

Sloan swept the camera feed over the crowd until he found his quarry. On the feed appeared a lean and wiry alien with spiky protrusions along his scalp in a sickly, pale brown jacket and waving slips of currency in his hands while screaming obscenities from his needle-like teeth. Sloan activated his link to the active bounty database and set his ID scanner over the alien's face and ran the sequencer. It identified the alien as Quinlun seconds later, a notorious Gredoan mafia underboss, enforcer, and career sadist; wanted for a long list of crimes stretching out decades that might pass as his resume to the leaders of the Border Clusters' underworld, and a hefty forty-thousand credit bounty. Quinlun was flanked on either side by two burly humans with large energy pistols on their hips, thick bracers around their arms and molded body armor strapped to their torsos, four more guards of equal pattern of dress and armaments waited by the both entrances, eyes and ears keen for any threats to their patron.

Sloan tagged the six of them on his HUD and withdrew the cable, its purpose fulfilled, and spooled it back into its slot on the side of his helmet and removed a small explosive charge roughly the size of a softball from his hip and mounted it on the wall and turned the center keyring a quarter circle to the right and pulled outwards, raising a bright yellow tube, until he heard a click. Sloan followed up by taking four short black strips from his webbing and set them a foot's length from the sides of the charge to form a frame resembling a sliding window, the strips connected to the main charge with thin copper wires. He gave the rigging a quick inspection to make certain he had done it right before activating his suit's vacuum protocols, moving a respectable distance from the breaching charge, flipped up the cap of the detonator, and thumbed the little red button underneath it. The yellow tube snapped back down and Sloan faintly caught the sound of the flash grenade bursting over the crowd moments ahead of the shaped explosives. The scream of metal cleaving apart echoing down the alleyway so loud it drowned out the explosion of the bomb.

A small cloud of dirt and filth erupted up and out from the wall and rained debris across the alley, small chunks striking Sloan's armor and bouncing off the thick plates. Sloan wrenched back the charging handle of his rifle a few times to ensure it was loaded chambered and cycling properly before tucking his rifle against his chest and ducked through the rent, guided by his left shoulder. The edges of the steel alloy plating had warped inward with the force of the blast glowed a vibrant orange and hissed madly. A few sharp points scraped his armored shoulders and back as he turned out into the wrecked gambling hall and surveyed the crowd of patrons, decumbent and helpless, sprawled out on the floor groaning with pain.

The guards were already struggling to their feet either jerking their weapons from their holsters or putting great effort into aiming them in their shaking hands. A notice from Sloan's biometric scanner warned him that their vitals were lighting up from combat stimulants coursing through their veins. Sloan cleared the notice from his HUD and brought the stock of his rifle against his shoulder and thrust his eye down the sight. With quick pulls of the trigger the bounty killer deposited single shots into the bodyguards' heads before any of them had the chance to react or catch their bearings. The blasts of the gunshots were muffled in his ears by his suit's vacuum protocols and went wholly unnoticed by the deafened throng of groaning bodies, but Sloan swept over the crowd before he dropped into the gambling den.

 _"Quinlun Gal'Ek, I've come for you,"_ Sloan said as he crossed through the room.

Quinlun's tag showed through the calamity of prostrated humans and aliens struggling to recover from Sloan's sudden entry into the establishment. Of course, the wanted man had taken flight the moment he had recovered enough of his sense. The tapir-faced alien broke for the stairs and Sloan followed it at a brisk pace, his shields flashing as the occasional shot from whatever weapons Quinlun had on him at the moment as fled for the stairs to ground level. Sloan flinched when his shields failed and a few rounds glanced off his armor.

But still the bounty killer pursued.

 **...**

Quinlun exploded through the door at the top of the stairs with an exasperated yelp and swung around on his heel, firing another salvor of rounds from his blaster at the walking nightmare keeping an inhumanly nimble pace after him. Quinlun gave a defiant shriek and threw the door back shut and dumped the remainder of the charge pack into the lock mechanism, melting it to slag and sealing the door shut. It wouldn't hold for long, Quinlun knew, but he prayed to any god that was listening that it would buy him enough time as he fled through building's bottom level, running into staff and residents, knocking over any shelf or cart to leave as many obstacles in his wake as he could. Anything that could slow the horror that had come for him in the parlor. He cursed himself for his idiocy; all of his arrogance. How could he not have put all the pieces together? Why hadn't he booked the first flight out of the Border Clusters when he had had the chance?

Complacency, that's what he had chalked it up to. This wasn't the first time his bounty had been picked up —or even the first time he had squared off against a bounty hunter. In a career as a made mobster in the biggest crime syndicate on this side of the galaxy, Quinlun had wracked up quite a score of hotheaded punks that thought they could clear a few large quick by bringing him in. At the peak of his career he had dealt with the either the Marshals or their bottom feeding scum hounds on a near daily basis. But as his influence and his network grew and expanded, and the bodies started to pile up, the vigor of the other side of the law dropped off in favor of easier prey. They had left him well enough alone, and Quinlun returned the favor. On occasion, he would catch a message from someone in his inner circle about some eager little shit had snatched up his post from the Marshals' database and Quinlun would have a merry little game of cat and mouse with them while he sized his or her ability before either recruiting them into his organization or eliminate them.

Nearly a month ago Quinlun received a message from a number of his contacts stating that his bounty notice had been placed on reserve. Not taken by an agent, as the Marshals called their vast reserves of bounty hunters, but not removed from the the pending bounty database either. Quinlun ordered every scuttlebutt on his payroll to stick their ears to the ground and keep them there until they had something. A week passed and nothing came up, and his moles in the Marshals claimed that other than the weird posting, no one had so much as glanced at his bounty notice. Without any leads or reason to inquire further, Quinlun shrugged it off and went about his business. Then his top hacker disappeared, an old safe house had been raided and one of his lieutenants was found literally beaten into pulp and around his protective detail dead to the last man in a facility designed to be impregnable, missing everything above the neck. Even then Quinlun only had a glimpse of the magnitude of the situation. Someone was pecking at his inner circle for faults to exploit. Someone who was smart or well informed enough to take on the biggest crime family in the Border Clusters. Quinlun was utterly oblivious to the full scope of the danger until Clayton Sloan blew a hole into the side of the Three Points Residential Tower and gunned down his guard team.

"Sloan." Quinlun rasped a long series of furious curses in his singsong language as he darted across the lobby of the building. "It _had_ to _be_ Sloan. Two hundred greedy, bloodthirsty, twisted, psychos running around on the Marshals' leash, of _course_ I get stuck with the one with the decapitation fetish."

But Quinlun had an out. His ride was just outside the building. It was an ugly gas guzzling hunk of scrap, but it had enough armor plated on to withstand an artillery shelling an keep going. Quinlun nodded furiously to himself at the brief plan that was coming together as he rushed through the lobby area of the apartment building, knocking over a busboy that had wandered into him. The kid fell into a cart of luggage and hollered curses at him but Quinlun ignored the slights to his character as he rushed to the sliding doors of the building's main entrance. He had an infinity more pressing issue stalking after him and the chariot of his escape was just beyond the great glass doors across from him.

His salvation was so certain Quinlun never saw the hulking black fist that collided with his jaw as he passed through the building's entrance.

 **...**

Of course Quinlun ran. Sloan didn't blame him. In the past fifteen years the Arcturan had lost count of the numbers of bounty targets — man and woman alike — that had taken their chances at at frenzied escape but he chiefly he remembered every one that got away. Quinlun Gal'Ek was not one of those people, slouched over on the ground, clutching his jaw and squealing in pain. With his other hand Quinlun fishes his blaster out of his jacket and fires a flurry of shots at Sloan, hastily crawling backwards as the barrage of energy bolts dissipating across his shields into harmless wafts of ozone until the charge block clacked dry. Sloan felt the crunch of the dirt ridden pavement under his boots as he strode towards the Gredoan as he stumbled to his feet. Sloan dished out a quick burst from his rifle to Quinlun's leg and sent him back onto the ground with a shrieking howl and a fit of pained expletives until the gangster caught sight of him and his face went slack with terror.

"Sl-Sloan!" the mafioso managed to wheeze through his needle-like teeth. Sloan came to a stop just besides his quarry and Quinlun released the bloody patch of his leg and clasped onto the bounty hunter's ankle, tears streaming from his eyes and sobs wracking his body as he stared up at his doom. "I can pay you double! Or-or-or triple! But please! _Please_ don't kill me! I'm worth more alive!"

Sloan snorted and kicked his hand away.

"You're worth enough to _me_ dead," the Arcturan remarked. A soft chime rang in his helmet as he pressed the muzzle against Quinlun's head. A window opened in the top corner of his HUD displaying a series of numbers separated by decimals going no further than three digits. Sloan keyed the comlink open and the face of his AI companion appeared in place of the spiking frequency box. "Dot."

The brunette beamed. _"Hey, boss. How's the hunt going?"_

"Caught up with Quinlun. Just about to put him out of my misery," Sloan squeezed the trigger of his C-29 and cut the gangster's despondent shriek short. Quinlun jerked back violently as the rail-accelerated projectile blew out the back of his head. He collapsed onto the sidewalk venting his last breath in a wet, spongy gurgle. "Something tells me this isn't a social call."

 _"No. Just thought I'd let you know Samus woke up. I'm working her motor functions back into place with a quick tour of the ship."_

Sloan looped the sling of his rifle over his neck and shoulder and drew his knife, Fang, as he squatted down. "Who?"

 _"Samus. Samus Aran. The six-three, two-twenty-three blonde woman you picked up."_ Dot said the name in a way that very much implied Sloan should know it _._ Fang punched through the vertebrae of Quinun's spine with a zipping sound before he set the high-frequency knife through the remaining muscle and bone.

"Didn't know her name," Sloan turned his grip so Fang's guard rested on top of his thumb and trigger finger and ripped the blade outward, cutting through the rest of Quinlun's neck and divorcing his deflated head from his body. "She important?"

 _"Socially yes, financially no,"_ Dot said like she was reading his mind. _"Famously the best bounty hunter the Galactic Federation has seen in about seventy years? Cut her teeth out here about ten or fifteen years back? Went to work for the Feds as an exclusive agent and left after that mess in the SR388 system? You've_ never _heard of her?"_

"Fifteen years ago, I still had a collar on Öbermacht, Dot," Sloan wiped the mess of tissue and fluid from the blade on the damped cloth and slide it back into its sheath on his hip. "The Pits aren't exactly a place to keep up on current events."

Dot closed her eyes and drew her brows together. _"Okay. Yeah, I walked right into that one."_

"You usually do," Sloan pulled a cinch sack from his rig and flapped it open before he stuffed Quinlun's head into the open maw and pulled the drawstrings closed. "Target secured."

Dot nodded. _"Headed to the Marshal's?"_

"Yes. Radio ahead for me and let Giuseppe know I'll be swinging by," Sloan ordered and dropped the proof of his success alongside another larger, bloodied, fly covered parcel in the Bushwhacker's squat flatbed. "I'll be back by sundown. In the meantime, keep our guest comfortable and entertained."

 _"I think I can do that."_ Dot replied with a wink before adding, _"I want to keep Samus around over night for observation and I'm thinking about throwing a celebratory 'Hey, You're Not Dead!' dinner tonight. Suggestions?"_

Sloan grunted as he climbed into the driver's seat and hit the ignition. "Surprise me."

* * *

 _A/N: I'd really appreciate some feedback folks. And I know people are reading this, I have traffic alerts. So pop in a review if you'd kindly, critiques or derision or a jolly "Up yours, pal." to let me know you're not bots._


	3. Giuseppe

_A/N: Well fuck this took forever to get done. I want to formally apologize for being so late, I've had quite the past few months. I was evicted from my apartment and the whole building itself was condemned after it was discovered that an asbestos lining broke and worked its way into the building's ventilation system, fun for **all** people involved, and have spent the past several weeks A.) getting my stuff from the condemned apartment back, B.) working, C.) taking care of my dog, and D.) finding a new place to live._

 _So yeah, new chapter. Whoo!_

* * *

 _"Our work unites us."  
_ **— Official Motto of the the Labor Union, Artisan and Merchant Guild Oversight Authority**

 **=]**[=**

The aged storehouse that served as the base for the Interstellar Law Marshals in the Four Deserts Region was never a very busy place. Roughly fifteen-hundred feet of space, made of plaster and rebarred concrete blocks filled with a high-density carbon foam that was purportedly blast resistant up to one megaton of composition plastic explosion, laminated, four-inch thick bulletproof windows, and an abundance of cells for holding any degree of criminal. It possessed its own water tanks, communications array, and a fusion power generator. The building was far from elegant, but served the purpose it was given well enough.

It had been a reluctant but eventual offering by the townsfolk. Meridian had been left well enough alone by the marauding gangs of outlaws, bandits and renegades of the region due to the budding city's isolation and lack of attractions. The civilian residency were not at all keen on the suggestion of hauling in the most dangerous and prolific of the Four Deserts' criminals into the limits of Meridian. To compromise, the Marshals maintained that the facility would be chiefly administrative, a glorified field office and listening post as opposed to a dedicated headquarters, the cells were to house convicted persons in a sort of layover; contained until they were either executed or moved to a more secure facility like Petterton or Anteburrow.

The decades that followed brought Meridian growth in commerce, population, and predictably an increase in crime and the criminal element. The years had seen to the building being retrofitted several times. But only when it was adamantly necessitated. For the most part people kept well away from it, save for the bounty hunters. Certainly the oblong drifter and occasional paid volunteer lingered about for a measly pay that kept them fed and roofed for the night, hoodlums brought in by the sheriff when the jail filled up, and mercenaries contracted to the Marshals looking for their pay. Sloan counted himself among the latter climbing the short steps of the front entrance and through the parted doors to the mostly empty lobby of the Marshals building. The lobby was occupied by Halvard, the sole bodyguard to the station's operator and administrator. The bulky, blue-gray skinned Osrin stood propped against a wall at the corner of a hallway that led deeper into the building with one foot over the other at the ankle, his thick arms cross over his even thicker chest. Halverd's rounded almond eyes retreated from whatever far away land his thoughts had sent them at the soft chime that went off when Sloan passed through the threshold indoors and snapped onto Sloan as he approached; leisurely turning his head to look at the bounty killer directly with an expectancy about his features.

"Mornin', Clay," Halvard said distantly, offering a slight nod in greeting.

"Hello, Hal," Sloan said as he crossed the lobby. "How's the shoulder?"

"Healed, mostly. Rotator cuff's still a bit sore but I'll live," the muscle bound alien flicked his crimson gaze at the bloody sacks the bounty killer clutched in his hand and back up. "Big haul today."

"It's been a good week, with a few strings attached," Sloan jerked his chin at the reception counter at the other end of the room. "The Marshal available?"

Halvard nodded. "In his office."

Sloan set the gruesome curios on the counter and tapped his finger on the call bell off center to the right. The sharp ringing sound echoed in the deep quiet of the lobby. Something rustled in one of the rooms beyond the group of empty half-walled cubicles. A moment later, Marshal Sergio Giuseppe emerged from his corner office on the other side of the service desk with an arm lingering on the doorframe, his aristocratic features and lanky frame, and his large, slender hands betrayed the lawman's deadly skills with the pistol he kept tucked under his shoulder. The marshal's grainy sand-colored eyes danced about as he searched for the source of his summons, and when they fell upon Sloan and the Marshal's features lit up with a jolly glee that neared childish joy.

"Master Sloan!" Giuseppe exclaimed, greeting the bounty killer with a vibrant smile like an old friend he had not seen in many years.

"Marshal."

The wiry man moved to the counter in two swift strides, leaning his forearms on the vinyl panel surface. "Haul in another ruffian for us?"

"Yes and no," Sloan set a hand on the larger of the two bags, saying, "Gordon Thaleed and his accomplices. Courtesy of Samus Aran."

"Ah. Yes. I'll see that she's credited," Giuseppe stated assuredly working the keys on the terminal behind the counter.

Sloan grunted as he said, "She's gonna need it."

"So Dot's told me. Surgical procedures are expensive. I will admit that, yes, Samus has lost a bit of her grit. However I'd consider it a personal favor if you did try to go easy on her, Clay. The girl hasn't been home in a very long time."

"I noticed when she walked into a hotgate and had half her torso ripped open by a hand grenade."

"I said 'go easy', not 'don't be critical'," the Marshal glanced at the smaller of the two parcels and back up to the bounty killer. "Who's this?"

Sloan made quick work undoing the simple knot in the cinch cords on the smaller bag, quickly pulled open the mouth of the sack with a jerk, reached his hand in and seized the grisly remains of his own quarry by the scalp to set on the counter.

"Quinlun Gal'Ek, Gredoan mobster and former compatriot from the Mercenaries Guild."

Giuseppe raised a brow and his mouth thinned to a frown. "Yes, I remember him alright. Eight grand going either way, wasn't it?" Sloan nodded and the Marshal continued. "Indecent fellow even at his most charming, terrible shame he didn't live to see trial. I know at least six of your competitors would love to have a few choice words towards his conviction. Personally I'd like to thank you for closing his regrettable chapter in our city's story."

"Glad to have been a part of history, Sergio," Sloan glanced at a notice on his HUD that he had been credited for his service and the total of his reward would be added to his account after security clearing. Sloan eyed the CONFIRM button centered under the short paragraph and blinked to close the window. "Know anything about her?"

"Hmm?"

"Samus Aran, the girl I burned eight-and-a-half grand putting back together," Sloan said and caught the Marshal's interest with a surprised glance of his eyes, "what's her background?"

Giuseppe shrugged a shoulder. "Colonist kid, not surprising considering the Federation's hiccup with Earth. Her parents were killed when she was still a child, a Chozo friend of the family adopted her after that. The rest of her childhood is a question mark. I don't know if it's because something happened or if the Feds honestly _don't know_. Her files are surprisingly classified, even with my station."

"Let alone your reputation," Sloan offered, the aside earned him a grunt from the other man. "What's public record?"

"Samus enlisted into the Federal Navy right around the time she became eligible. Most of her activities after she completed basic training are covered over in black ink. From what I recall of her methods I'd guess she was either Intelligence Corps or special forces. Her term finished and she didn't re-enlist, got her own ship and her own suit from her adopted parents, and ventured out here to take up the craft. I still have her dossier here, I can send it to you. I imagine that if you're credentials are still active in the Dominion I bet you can get more out of it than I can."

"Log it with Dot," Sloan said affirmatively, sparing a glance at the mugshots on the posters of the bounty board. "Anything good on the wire?"

"A few come to mind," the Marshal said, stepping away from his terminal and crossing his arms over his chest. "Though for you? I have one in particular. Granted it's more rumor and hearsay."

Sloan glanced at the severed head sitting on the counter. "I've started with less."

"Eddie Manks, heard of him?" Sloan shook his head and Giuseppe punched few commands on his terminal. A projection of a man approximately in his late thirties appeared in the center of the lobby. He was of a course, withered complexion, with a long and ugly series of raking scars running down the right side of his face, likely he had been mauled by any of Valmora's native predatory fauna and survived. His thin hair was receding and colored an oily blonde and slicked back over his scalp. His beady yellow and bloodshot eyes were focused on the cigarette clutched in his cracked lips as it en was thrust into the pilot flame of a jury rigged flamethrower.

"Clay I'd like to introduce you to Edward Thompson Manks," Giuseppe continued with more than a little amusement in his voice. "Thirty-nine years old last May, height five-eleven, weight one-hundred-ninety pounds. A career stickup man, notorious around the Headlands and the Rusted Coast. Built quite the rep robbing every tin-roofed shack with something worth stealing, massed up a crew of forty until the locals in a township called Shott's Darrow anted up and gunned down a third of their number before chasing what was left to our neck of the woods. From what my contacts have gathered, he and whoever else is left is in town."

Sloan relented an irritated growl. If Manks was on the run, and if he was smart, he would be hunkered down somewhere he knew was safe. There had to be at least a dozen places hidden all over Meridian an outlaw could duck into hiding with little or no interference from the populace or law enforcement. That was just off the top of Sloan's head.

"Have an idea where I should look first?"

"Seebley's Point," Giuseppe flippantly gestured to his left, the general direction of the neighborhood in question. "I've had my contacts scouring the city since word was passed to me. There's a Boks-Suhr ganger-cum-gun merchant there by the name of Joram Fyl that Manks used to run with. For the right price or the correct squeeze he should be able to tell you anything you need."

"I'll look into it, let you know what I find." Sloan paused as he turned to leave. "And file her paperwork."

Giuseppe glanced up and grinned. "As you say, Guild Master."

Sloan left without another word and Giuseppe rapidly fired several commands into his terminal as the bounty killer turned to leave. Giuseppe sniffed and rubbed the underside of his nose with his forefinger before his gaze fell on the slacken expressions on the former bandits' heads. "Harlvard, when you have the moment, dump these in the incinerator for me before they get ripe would you?"

 **...**

The more Samus saw and learned of the _Cobalt_ , through the candid explanations of eager Dot as she led the way to the ship's armory, the more impressed she was by it.

The ship's official registry was the IVC-S 1113948-007983195 _Cobalt_. Her prefix abbreviated the vessel classification of Independent Venture Craft, Spacefaring and the first set of numbers indicated her radio code under the Interstellar Maritime Organization, owned and captained by Arcturan bounty hunter Clayton Sloan. The _Cobalt_ was a Centurion-class heavy starship regularly in use by the Interstellar Marshals for deep space patrols and operations for TRU teams in problem systems. And it showed. Four centralized propulsion engines powered by their own cold fusion warp drives that could decouple in the even of an emergency, a hull comprised of ADAM-5 alloy plating colored in the crafts namesake blue, each wing of the ship harbored two missile pods loaded with eight Lancer missiles in each sleeve—with another three dozen in reserve—coupled with a pair of gun pods housing a Bofors 70mm rail cannon and two GAU/D–49 Matkovic Gatling rotary guns that could sling out thirty-two millimeter slugs at seven-thousand rounds a minute each, and dorsal and vestal M913 one-hundred-twenty-five millimeter point defense cannons housed in the hull until activated for piloted or automated gunning. The interior was designed to be as homey and comfortable as a paramilitary craft could for the sake of its future crew members. Lighting was mostly recessed LEDs that cannily imitated sunlight and reflected off the soft whites and dulcet blues of the bulkheads to provide a relaxing atmosphere during the long ventures in patrol routes.

She was a small ship, a crew of a dozen could fully staff operations aboard and at maximum capacity fifty humanoids of average size could fit comfortably, but the main hold could house an additional forty to fifty people in case of emergency. Her kitchen was fully stocked, capable of full automation, and adjoined to the small mess room by a wall partition. The sizable armory was stocked with an array of finely tuned weapons and brand new tactical gear wrapped in cellophane cases around a capable simulation range for practice and drills. The bridge, CIC, and flight deck were combined into a single space to preserve room for the crew quarters and separate housing for the tactical team if they were inclined. The med-bay, situated between the storage bay and the staff housing and separated by short passages on either side, was capable of a number of operations and treatments ranging from simple clinical diagnosis to complex medical surgeries. Samus knew that firsthand.

The _Cobalt_ 's construction occurred over the course of three months in the shipyards of Kynapis under the care of the Marshals' Space Corps' master artificers. A series of test flights and a wide array of performance calibrations followed, and many weeks later the _Cobalt_ was cleared for active service and several teams were slotted to host her while the Marshals' livery was applied. Instead of uniformed service, however, the _Cobalt_ and much of its furnishings had been one part payment, one part gift, and two-parts apology from the Marshals a few weeks after the _Cobalt_ had been christened. The last starship Dot had been installed on had been emulsified when the confederates of a high-profile bounty had come to rescue their leader, and brought along enough ordinance to invade a small country. The bounty was several figures removed from being able to cover the cost to make the ship space worthy, let alone function a means of transit.

"So since Serg doesn't do much in the way of patrols and he had this beauty just sitting in back, he gave it to us," Dot concluded cheerily before adding, "He makes us pay for gas and oil changes, though. Cheap bastard."

Samus guffawed. "I'd say you made it out on top."

"We've come out worse."

"I can imagine," Samus mused. She had lost count of the times she had been jilted by a skeezy employer looking to save as much money as they could. Samus could also count with her fist the number of the niggardly assholes that were still alive. "So you and Clay run shop on her?"

"Mhmm!" Dot nodded. "Officially, Clay and I live and conduct business aboard this ship."

"And unofficially?"

"It's the headquarters of the Bounty Hunters' Guild."

Samus blinked and stopped dead in her tracks while Dot continued ahead. "I—Sorry. What?"

Dot turned around, head tilted curiously at the bounty hunter. "The Bounty Hunter's Guild. After the Marshals—and Clay—broke up Mercenaries' Guild, Clay chartered the Bounty Hunters' Guild while all of the merc teams that were left formed up the Freelancers or stayed independent."

Samus' shock must have been evident on her face, because the next moment Dot's head perked up in realization. "You didn't hear about that."

"No." Samus shook her head. She clenched her jaw and clamped her hands around her head. "No! Jesus, that was twelve years ago! How many people are in it?"

"Right now it's me and Clay," Dot answered before adding, "Pluuuus a few other applicants that we haven't been able to bring in. The Guild's Charter has been finalized but Clay hasn't enacted it officially. Yet."

Samus sighed with relief. "Well l, Christ, why the hell not?"

Dot shrugged. "'The world is quiet here.'"

The bounty hunter's frown did not do her confusion justice. "What?"

"It's what Clay tells me whenever I ask if he's going to open the guild," Dot explained. "He just says, 'the world is quiet here' and thhhhbbpppt," Dot demonstrated by jerking a thumb down. "Conversation over. On to next contract."

Samus squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head incredulously. "And the Oversight Authority is alright with it?"

Dot nodded. "We followed the OA's guidelines to the letter. At least three founders, an elected Guild Master positioned with two-thirds vote from all other members. Right now we just need to register our charter and viola! Valmora's first bounty hunters guild will be founded."

Samus' expression soured and she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Who are the founders?"

"All information regarding Guild personnel, past or present, is strictly confidential and only available to accepted Guild members or to be granted at the discretion of the Guild Master."

Samus rolled her eyes and tisked. She had expected that answer, standard personal information disclosure clause. On paper it was meant to protect the identities of members of guilds with hazardous or grudge-rearing professions, but in practice it often made it easy for members to escape criminal charges under plausible deniability. All too often, in Samus' opinion. Still, a guild that wasn't officially chartered had no reason to restrict the access to their roster. There was only one member of a founded guild that was open for public knowledge. And while Samus could guess what the answer would be, she went ahead and asked anyway.

"Let me guess, Clayton Sloan is the Guild Master."

Dot made a face like Samus had said a bad joke. "Well, yeah, obviously."

 **...**

A wide and thick window looked into the _Cobalt_ 's armory and offered a quick glimpse of what lay beyond the labeled door before Dot commanded it open. Weapons of an immense variety rested on racks and caged cabinets against the walls and in column rows, grouped together based on type, configuration, and caliber, at the ready whenever they were needed. An emptied area of the room offered what Samus assumed was space for a simulated firing range. Two island counters resided in the otherwise empty space on the floor where guns in different states of stripping where set alongside cleaning and maintenance supplies. In one corner was a set of counters alongside what looked like five-foot pneumatic transition tubes. Dot made a bee line for the tub in the middle of the row after the door cleared. She turned on her heel and beamed a wide smile to Samus when they reached them.

"And here we are," Dot declared. "You're suit's just this way."

"Are these your fabricators?"

"Nano foundries, technically," Dot jerked a shoulder up, halfheartedly insisting the terminology. "We use them when we need more...delicate repairs done. Your suit classifies as biotech so it was a little out of my league."

The silver casket gave a whir and opened with a sharp popping sound. The door disappeared on a circuit path and Samus beheld the base of her Fusion Suit. An accordion arm reach out and presented Samus with her fully repaired Zero Suit. The bounty hunter drew her brows together as she lifted the blue article and began inspecting it. It was seamless, or very nearly. The only glaring one Samus could find was the break in the lining that served as the zipper that let Samus actually put on and take off her suit, and that was only done by memory.

"I'd say it paid off," Samus said and Dot gave a loud tisk and threw her head back. Samus went to undo the clasps of the gown but stopped and asked, "It alright if I just change here?"

"I certainly won't stop you," the AI said and her expression blanked for a moment before returning to her regular jovial gleam. "And hey! Clay's cleared the cargo bay and on his way up to meet us."

Samus nodded absently, shrugging off the shirt and letting the patient's gown fall and puddle around her feet. While she had some time Samus took to inspecting what would become her newest series of scars. It didn't look too bad, actually, there was a slight discoloration around her rib cage and a faint redness that peeked out of the medical gauze that were placed over the points of incision, at least Samus' best guess at where they were, alongside some nasty looking bruises that were starting to thin out. They didn't cause any pain so she didn't pay them any attention.

"Your boss, Clay," the bounty hunter started. "He's...alright, right? Like in the head?"

Dot gave an exasperated snort. "Clay's the most obstinate, bull-headed contractor this side of the Wall and doesn't like being told he 'can't' at anything. But while I'd hardly call him a saint, he's not a twisted sadist either. The OA cleared him for GM service so I'll say that he's pretty good upstairs. Other than that, Clay doesn't emote much, but I think that's more of an Arcturan thing than a psychological issue."

Samus smirked. "And that thing with the heads is?"

Dot shrugged. "His calling card? Clay's done it since before I met him."

Samus stood up and rolled her shoulders, comforted by the familiar sensation of the Zero Suit flexing against her skin and the feint straining noises it made. "Alright," she said and clapped her hands and rubbed her palms against each other. "Let's go meet the Captain."

Dot nodded mirthfully and turned on her heel. "Right this way, then."

Samus followed swiftly after the AI concierge and caught up to her pace in a few quick strides. "So how did you and Clay 'meet'?"

"Long story short?" Dot countered with a wink. "I came under his care as he was collecting everything above my designer's neck. If he hadn't snagged me when the Marshals' TRU guys caught up with him, I'd be nothing more than chaff-fried motherboards. "

"Not a pleasant thought?" Samus barbed when the AI's dollus shivered.

"Let's just say I don't dedicate a lot of my processors on it," Dot retorted. "Any, as a matter of fact."

Dot stopped before a set of doors that came off the wall halfway down the hall. It occurred to Samus that she and the AI hadn't actually used the _Cobalt_ 's lift during Dot's impromptu tour. But it looked like any other vertical lift found across the galaxy, save for a red control yoke centered were the doors met in the middle.

"It means it's in use," Dot said. "Security feature, doors lock with the elevator's in transit."

A soft chime sounded as the elevator came to a stop. Dot lit up excitedly. The doors whisked open and Samus stared at the barrel chest of a towering black colossus before she took a step back and tipped her head up.

By the way the figure was dressed, Samus suspected he was either readied for a full blown war, or returning from it. His frame was hugged by a design of armor Samus was unfamiliar with. It encased his body from his boots to the tips of his fingers and carried many marks of abuse; dented by bullets, warped by plasma, scratched by blades, charred by flame, and God knew what else. There was an aura of presence about it that commanded the eye's attention and cast both fear and awe into the observer. Weapons dripped from his frame like venom from an adder's fangs and further enforced his martial bent.

A lengthy marksman's rifle and a configured assault rifle were slung over his back, held in place by magnetic straps no doubt. A bandoleer stuffed to burst with bullets, shot-shells and a sinister-looking knife crossed his chest, pouches for magazines were clustered on his abdomen in a military-style rig, a belt circled his waist where more mags were tucked into clip-slots and a silvery tomahawk dangled from a loop next to a dented canteen coated with beads of perspiration from the chill of its contents. Two side arms were on his person, one a silvery revolver finely polished to an impeccable shine that rested midpoint of his thigh in a short holster, the other a tan-colored semi-automatic tucked under his left arm.

Most outstanding of this immense figure's attire was the grim helmet that enclosed the entirety of his head. Jet black and as abused as the rest of his armor. A promise of certain but swift doom stared down at him from pitiless red slits of light that started just below where the nose should be, went up, and slanted slightly to the end of the helmet's brow.

"Samus Aran," Dot smiled, "allow me to introduce you to Clayton Sloan."

 **...**

"Dot," Sloan said as he observed the young woman before him with a decidedly deer in the headlights aura about her, from her posture to the overwhelmed expression. In hindsight, Sloan supposed he could have better coordinated their first meeting with slightly more tact.

"Samus Aran," he said and tipped his head respectively. "Good to see you back on your feet in one piece."

"Ah, yeah. Thank you, good to _still be_ in one piece," Samus said. "I appreciate you pulling my boots out of the fire, Guild Master."

Sloan turned his eyes back to Dot with a raised and curious eyebrow.

"She asked and I answered," Dot shrugged. "It's not like you weren't gong to tell her."

"Uh-huh," Sloan said and looked back at Samus. The young woman stood a little straighter and Sloan stepped to his left and jerked his head indicatively. "Get in."

She obliged and stepped into the elevator as Sloan punched the button for the cargo bay level. The doors closed and the elevator began its descent with a mechanical whir. Most of the ride was passed in silence as Sloan was still formulating how he wanted to approach this next phase, but midway through the second deck Samus cleared her throat.

"I wanted to ask…how much of Thaleed's lecture did you catch back there?"

"Most of it," Sloan answered, honestly. Underlying implications aside, he didn't see any point in lying to Samus. If he was going to be working with the young woman, Sloan was going to open and honest with her as he could be. Anything less would not do either of them any good.

It didn't make Samus' reflexive wince any less amusing, however.

"Gordon Thaleed was a thief, a brute, and a killer. He'd have said anything to get into your head. How long have you been active? A little over three weeks and in that time, you took on and completed eight commissions, testing the waters. So you went for a job with a little more in the pot and wound up biting off more than you could chew. It happens."

"Still would've liked to pop that son of a bitch," Samus sighed and crossed her arms. She leaned against the side of the elevator, facing him fully. "Anyway, thanks for the pep talk. With the day I've had I half expected a lecture."

Sloan shook his head. "Sergio reinstated you himself. He's a good man, and a close friend. I trust his judgement, but I wish he'd at least have given me a call after he finalized your return to duty."

Samus smirked and said, "To make a personal assessment of my abilities?"

"More or less," the bounty killer nodded.

The elevator came to a comfortable stop and buzzed as the doors opened out to the Cobalt's spacious cargo hold. Aside from the typical supply crates, a vehicle dock, and a small armory station just ahead of where Samus and Sloan stepped off the elevator, and a raised platform directly in the middle with a series of terminals that popped to life when it registered that there were occupants in the bay. Sloan immediately made his way to a row of lockers that had a stock image of a body armor under a combat helmet on the doors. Sloan tapped in a code on one the doors and pulled it open, and took a sealed cellophane bag off the rack inside. He turned to face his new protege's inquisitive look.

"Put this on," Sloan said, handing her the bag. "And don't ever take it off outside the ship."

"A bullet vest?"

Sloan grunted affirmatively. "Specialized polycarbonate counter-ballistics vest, Grade IV. The SRT guys I taxi wear these when they go on raids. Lightweight and flexible, but you can take an eight gauge slug to the sternum and not get so much as a bruise."

A brow raised on the young bounty hunter as she opened the bag and held the graphite gray article in front of her at arm's length. "You did see my armored suit, right? Big and orange, kinda hard to miss?"

The bounty killer grunted but ignored Samus' jab. "Your power suit alone won't cut it on this side of the Wall, we don't have a reliance on energy weapons like in Civ Space. Chozo build to last, but as it is now your armor defends best against direct- or projected-energy weapons; a rare sight out here," Sloan informed, moving over to a weapons cabinet and opened it up after punching in a code and pulled one of the SRT's PDWs off the wrack. He pulled the charging handle back to inspect the chamber for a moment, and then set it into the cradle of the workbench to his right. Looking back into the cabinet he flicked his eyes about for the cases of assemblage he deemed appropriate, grabbed them from their shelves, and set them on the workbench too.

"The average person in the Border Clusters doesn't have the scratch to get a man-portable plasma cutter, let alone a direct energy weapon. Not any more," Sloan clarified, keeping his tone light. Conversational. Almost like he was giving a briefing back in the Dominion. "The immense majority of people you'll be meeting carry mass driver kinetic weapons; civilian populace, common bandits, even the Marshals. All someone with the intent would have to do is get the drop in me and rob me with business end of a zip gun and you are back on that table. Permanently."

"Well…" Samus shrugged conceitedly. "Fair point."

Sloan cast a look over his shoulder at Samus before chuckling under his breath. "I'll have Dot draw up a Chobham weave or a hydrostatic gel mod for your suit," he said with assurance. "Besides, this isn't an evaluation of your combat abilities."

"I'm...sorry, what?" Samus deadpanned. _That_ caught her off guard.

"As mobile as you are at the moment, Samus, I want your injuries to get further healed before we get you back out into the field of fire," Sloan explained. "Until then, I want to see your reconnaissance and information gathering skills at work."

"You got a commission lined up already?"

"Edward 'Eddie' Mansk from the Rusted Coast," Sloan said as he set a mounted micro sight onto the gun's top rail and tightened the fastening bolts to keep it in place. "Career bank robber, various assault and murder charges that come with it."

"Something simple, okay, I'll play this game," Samus sucked in and let out a breath. "We got an idea on his whereabouts?"

"According to a few CIs there's a man in Seebley's Point that can point us to his direction. 'Retired' outlaw by the name of Joram Fyl, runs a gunshop off the market."

"So we go ask Joram a few questions about his former comrade and get a fix on Manks," Samus concluded with a breath. "How hard do you plan on asking him?"

"As hard as I need to."

"Right. I don't suppose I could borrow one of those?" Samus indicated the squat weapon Sloan held.

"This is yours, actually," Sloan said and lifted the weapon from the cradle to hold out for her after adding a suppressor and box-framed projection circle-dot optical gunsight. "Standard issue for SRT, Sigerson Arms PDW with back-folding integrated foregrip and retractable stock."

Samus grabbed the gun in a way that it set in her arm and pulled the sliding stock out. Her eye down the sight, a contemplative look on her face as she swept the weapon around the room to get a feel for the weight.

"Okay," Samus looped the sling over her shoulder and let the micro weapon hang at her hip. "That it?"

Sloan nodded. "We're going in light. I don't expect too much resistance."

"What's she shoot like?"

"Fair once you get a hang for it. Her ballistic profile is equivalent to a four-point-six millimeter cartridge, with an output going a little under forty kilowatts. Great against soft targets and light armor. The thermal sinks the Marshals use let up to forty shots before they need to be swapped," Sloan set down a magazine rig with a number of long, thin, crescent shaped clips stuffed into them. "You'll be carrying six."

"More than enough," Samus lifted the rig and clipped ito onto her torso. Sloan picked up his rifle and and slung his over his back.

"Ready?"

Samus nodded. "Ready."

* * *

 _A/N: Whenever I'm writing for Dot I always picture Anne Hathaway; don't know why. Maybe_ _it's her hurried and excited charisma that I pick up from her interviews that I've tried to imbue Dot with at least on some level but idk. And yes, I'm blatantly robbing the mass driver tech from Mass Effect for the guns in and around the BC. Kinetic weapons are just better suited to the fragile stability of the sector._

 _Be sure to review, I love hearing what you guys think!_


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